


Operation: Hawkeye

by Bigredtbc



Series: Six-Nine-Two [2]
Category: Hawkeye - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, BAMF Clint Barton, Beginnings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8262313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bigredtbc/pseuds/Bigredtbc
Summary: Agent Phil Coulson has been tasked with bringing down the assassin known as Hawkeye. That's easier said than done when Clint Barton doesn't exist.





	

Piecing together the puzzle that was Hawkeye was not an easy thing. Phil had had some hard cases in his life but this one was becoming something else. The assassin had been active now for about five years, which didn't make sense in the least.  
They had images of who they believed to be Hawkeye, grainy stills taken of a boy in a circus of all things around three years prior. A boy that at the time couldn't have been more than thirteen. How was it possible that a teenaged boy from the Midwest had a body count of roughly sixty three in five years, and those were just the ones that fit Hawkeye’s signature. Killed with an arrow with purple fletching.  
If Hawkeye had been female not male, it would be more than likely that Hawkeye was Red Room, however he wasn't. By everything they could dig up, Hawkeye was American, though it was possible that was fiction too. The Amazing Hawkeye’s paper work certainly was.

The alias they'd managed to shake loose from ‘Carson’s traveling carnival’ was a complete fabrication. Of the two boys the circus had taken in, one was real, the other was fictitious. Tracking one Charles Bernard “Barney” Barton down had proved fruitless, what little the teenager knew was next to useless. 

Phil had exactly one lead to go on. Hawkeye had a penchant for ink. Three years of hard investigative work and the one concrete thing they knew about the teen was that he had some sort of bird –likely a hawk- tattooed on the back of his neck, one that he had been to have added too five times since his career as a hired killer began. It wasn't much of lead but Phil’s gut said it was important. Tattoos weren't exactly uncommon for mercenaries but Hawkeye was a professional, despite his age. Professionals liked to avoid unique identifiers like tattoos but it did happen, even so, his gut still insisted there was something important about this tattoo he hadn't even seen. 

He was left playing catch up. Flying from crime scene to crime scene as he worked to find the illusive, as yet unidentified teenager, between cultivating one or two of his identities in the hope he could flush the assassin out that way. 

In the end, it was pure luck. Of all the hard work he had put into it, it came to a case of ‘right place, right time’ not that he would put that in the report of corse. On the tail of Hawkeye's latest kill, he checked in with an old contact. It was an alias so old as to be useless, a clear case of grasping at straws that surprisingly paid off. It wasn't Hawkeye, but it could lead to catching him. Two weeks later he was stepping off a plane in Mogadishu.

 

>>>\---------->

 

The heat was stifling, mid summer and mid heat wave, the sun baking the asphalt causing hazy glimmers on the horizon. Time was running short, the ship would be in port by six pm with the target onboard.  
Slinking between the containers, he stuck to whatever shadows he could find. Daylight wasn't his preferred time to work but if the target got to the convoy, it could be months before he surfaced again and while that didn't bother him much, he was getting paid double for short notice. Apparently someone really wanted this guy dead. 

Pausing between a stack of containers that provided not just shadow but a break in the heat, he checked his watch, grimacing as the seconds ticked down. Time was trickling away far quicker than he liked and he still had to find a perch.  
Poking his head out, he scanned the area, freezing at something odd. Crouching lower, he ducked further into the shadows as he focused on the dock worker down by the truck waiting to be loaded.  
The guy didn't seem out of place, same smudged overalls as the other workers, same hard hat. Tilting his head again, he ran his eyes over the guy as he moved seemingly about his job. The dockworker shifted to mark something on his clipboard and he froze. Not many dockworkers could afford a genuine Rolex, a dockworker in Mogadishu -even on the take- would have no chance. His gut twanged, the small hairs prickling on the nape of his neck. Double money or not, something wasn't right here and he wasn't sticking around to find out what. 

Ducking back between the containers, he kept vigilant as he slunk out back the way he had come, feet silent as he listened for anything out of place under the rumble of Diesel engines. The prickling of the fine hairs along his nape grew worse and he knew without a doubt he had been made.  
Keeping low, he upped his speed, sprinting the gap between rows of containers and back into the relative cover of the tighter spaces. Instinct wanted him to get higher, gain the advantage but the hyper awareness prickled and warned against that. 

He paused deep in the shadows between two tall stacks, back pressed against the sun warmed corrugated iron of the container behind him. A single bead of sweat ran from his hair line, he could feel it trickle down the side of his face as the muscles along his shoulders twitched. That hard wired custom built instinct for danger had gone from a warning to full on alarm. He hadn't just been made, he was being hunted.  
Dragging air in deep, he deconstructed what he could, filtering through the cloying scents of exhaust fumes, diesel fuel, rust and refuse. It was faint, very faint, that he could smell it meant it was close. The tang of gun oil. Snipers were perched. The whine and grumble of the over head crane grew quieter as it moved away, dropping the ambient noise level just enough. His head swivelled to track the static crackle, like a hound, there, three boxes up, one row over two stacks back. Too far away to hear the command, but close enough he knew this wasn't just some rival, this was trouble with spec ops gear. 

The real question was, who was out there? Spec ops gear didn't really narrow it down. Legitimate authorities or something worse? Only one way to tell. He wouldn't have survived this long if he played it safe after all. Keen eyes flicked the immediate area and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Easiest was to find out just how much shit he was in was to figure out just how much they knew about him. 

The small gaps between the containers sitting end to end weren't big enough for anyone normal to squeeze through, then again, he wasn't normal, he was something…else. Carefully he slid the bow and quiver off, clipping the quiver to his belt and slipping the bow inside before turning to the containers at his back. Muscles bunched as he jumped, not too hard but enough his finger tips caught the top of the eight foot tall box. Less than a whisper of noise made as he braced his feet against the metal. Were anyone watching him, it would have been more than obvious he wasn't normal. Muscles flexed as he pushed up, catching the lip of the next container, the slight inch gap more than enough for him to shimmy along. A little contortionist work curtesy of Inga the amazing and he was sliding into the small space. Sixteen feet above the ground. The metal was cooler, pressing tightly against his back and chest, tight enough to constrict his breathing. Shimmying along without letting his beloved bow catch along the metal took delicate breathing and twisting.  
In another situation he could have hidden here for at least a day, maybe as much as two if the heat wave broke soon, but he had no idea if they had access to thermal imaging. He'd rather not be stuck in such a confined space if they moved in. Wiggling through, he made his way to the taller stacks, working his way up above the snipers eye line in the tight confines.  
Slithering onto the top of the higher stack, he drew a deep breath, slow and controlled as he inched along the roofing of the box, jaw clenched against the sudden brightness assaulting his eyes. Elevated, some of the prickling eased, the tension in his spine uncoiling to something more acceptable. Up here it's easier to hear, to smell. Already there's wisps of All spice and something more woody, colognes not typically worn in this part of the world diffusing into the air. Above the allies and gullies between containers, the ambient noise level drops, echoes dissipating quicker.  
His love of high places was a mix of training and instinct, meshed into something that gave him an advantage. He didn't fear heights, he didn't get vertigo. Where a normal sniper would find a nest, he went higher, always higher. 

The crane was looping back with a container, metal clanging as the machinery worked to haul a loaded container from the off-loaded pile towards the maze waiting to be loaded onto trucks. It was a risk that would potentially give away his position, but he'd be able to gain some perspective as well as a mobile perch. Craning his head, his eyes swept the incoming crane hovering high in the air. He could make the height, provided it came close enough.  
Right now, he was about forty feet off the ground, five containers up on the highest stack. The crane had a maximum lift height of about fifty-five feet, moving at less than six mph, with the current load at a conservative fifty feet of Hightower for clearance. Other than the cranes central point and the arm of crane, the suspended box was the highest point in the yard. It would give him an advantage but it would expose him at the same time. 

His quiver was full, including one grapple arrow, three explosive tipped arrows and one of the new splitters, that was thirty arrows all together, with no guarantee he could get any back. He had no idea of how many en-coms he had to deal with but he had his bow, a full quiver, his back up pistol with a single spare clip, his knives and his gear bag was stashed on the perimeter, tucked under bush by a length of chain fence.  
He could do this, this was the kind of thing he'd been built for, shit he was a one man army. He had this. 

The suspended container box inched closer to the optimum angle and he let out a soft groan, now or never, take the risk or bug out to another location – if he could – and see if he could regroup from ground level. Screw that, he was Hawkeye damnit. 

“Caw Caw mother fucker.” He breathed. 

The container reached the optimum angle and he moved, rolling up on to his feet and sprinting for the edge of the container. His arms pumped, the distance eaten in a heart beat as his stride and speed worked in concert. He leapt as the toes of his left food brushed the edge of the box, arms pumping as muscles built in a lab and then honed by years of training worked to propel him up. Ten feet of height and a good twelve of distance eaten in one powerful jump. He tucked his shoulder down, rolling onto the container hand dipping to his quiver, tugging his bow out as he came up fluidly onto his feet, eyes already scanning the immediate area. The container beneath him rocked from the impact, his stance shifting as he drew and notched an arrow, loosing it on the sniper below, eyes already on the next. 

He counted twelve men that he could see, three of them perched snipers. The first sniper took an arrow to the right shoulder as he loosed a second arrow at the next, the arrow barely leaving the string before his fingers were on a third arrow. It wasn't just his aim that made him one of the best, he had a draw rate unsurpassed.  
He shifted to get sniper three in line, drawing the arrow to full pull, peripherally he cold see three men on the ground scrambling, another four he lost tabs on as they disappeared behind stacks of containers. He loosed the arrow as sniper three shifted in on his perch to get him in cross hairs. As fletching cleared the riser of his bow, he dropped. The bark of a round clearing the rifle sniper three held echoed as the round whizzed above him, hitting the steal cabling holding the container aloft. Strands of steal snapped with high pitched twangs as more failed, the container juddering as the cable strained and signalling that it was time to ditch his own perch before it plummeted. 

 

Rolling up onto his feet, he kept his head low and his movement smooth, staying out of sight and keeping the container from moving more than it already was. The container had already passed the higher stack of boxes, but with the snipers out of the equation, that didn't matter as much. Gripping his bow tighter, he bailed out, leaping from the suspended box towards the nearest stack. 

His boots thudded with a metallic thump and he rolled with the motion, careful of his bow, a twenty foot drop taken without so much as a twinge. God bless his Frankenstein biology. He cursed as bullets pinged off the container below him, the closest en-coms opening fire. Stealth had been abandoned. 

 

;>>\---------->

 

“Do not let him out of your sights!” Phil snapped into his radio, circling the north end of the container stack. 

He dismissed the incoming calls of confirmation, gripping the rifle as he swept the area around him. This kid was much better than predicted, maybe even enhanced judging by that jump. Maybe one of these mutants that had been popping up.  
Another burst of gunfire cut off with a shout, Sanderson calling for back up and reporting Miller was down. Phil felt his jaw clench as he swept around a corner, checking above him as he went. That was the fifth man down in under two minutes, almost half his team out. A teem of level six operatives had been taken down by a teenaged boy. He bit down on the curse as he eased around the end of another container, leading with his rifle.  
The twang was near inaudible, but the alien sound had him reacting on instinct, finger tightening on the trigger as he jerked his head back behind the corner of the container. An arrow slid into the box six feet behind him as a pained grunt reached his ears. The arrow had missed him by near millimetres but it sounded like he may have scored a hit. 

Carefully, leading with his rifle, Phil inched back around. He froze, gut clenching in the familiar way that came with being in imminent life threatening danger. 

Hawkeye was stood there, bow held at full draw with and arrow aimed right at Phil's head. An arrow Phil wouldn't be lucky enough to avoid a second time. He kept his finger on the trigger of his rifle and his eyes on a pair of blue-grey eyes staring unblinkingly at him. The kid was in black gear, from combat boots and surplus cargo pants to the leather armoured vest over the sleeveless t-shirt, arm guards and a hood. A spreading wet patch on his left thigh let Phil see that he had indeed scored a hit. Lady Luck must be in his corner today, that was the only thing Phil could credit with not only escaping an arrow aimed at him but managing to score a hit, Hawkeye was too good for it to be anywhere way.  
The assassin remained silent, barely breathing as the arrow remained at full draw and yet the arms were solid, no sign of strain. This kid was good, it would be a damn shame to waste that skill and potential. The kid couldn't be older than sixteen and he was already one of the most skilled men Phil had seen. Fury was gonna shit bricks. 

“What do you think about getting paid to shoot people without it being a felony offence?” He said simply, lowering the rifle so if he had to fire, he was less likely to kill the kid. 

Blue-grey eyes widened, his head twitching with surprise as he let out a soft noise of question. 

“I want you to work for me, for S.H.I.E.L.D.” He added. That got a soft snort. “We have excellent medical care and the best tech in the business.” The eyes narrowed in distrust at the sound of medical, but he still hadn't shot Phil yet. “We're the good guys. You'd get the option of turning down missions you don't want, the best equipment and resources like you can only dream of.” He added earnestly. The arrow dipped, not by much but enough Phil knew if Hawkeye shot him now he would probably survive. That was progress. 

“I’m listening.” 

“How would you like to travel to exotic places and save the world?” Phil felt hope bloom in his chest.


End file.
